


Take It

by saltedpin



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Breathplay, Collars, M/M, Mild Pain Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6817963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltedpin/pseuds/saltedpin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not Bruce tonight; he’s not smiles and easy debauchery and the kind of sneaky innuendos that would make a mother superior blush and giggle and twirl her habit around her finger. Tonight he’s cold and hard and there’s only one body on the face of the earth that can take what he wants to dish out.</p><p>Fill for the kink meme prompt: <i>Bruce/Clark breathplay. Either direction is good. Bruce choking Clark (maybe near some kryptonite so Clark actually feels weakened), Clark choking Bruce who's freaked out by how much he likes it, mutual choking, all the choking. :D</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Take It

Bruce knows that under ordinary circumstances, Clark doesn't need to breathe. Or if he does, it's far less regularly than any human.

Clark has learned to mimic it – the rise and fall of the chest, the open mouth, that slight movement of the throat. He had to, if he wanted to pretend to be nothing more than the Kansas farm boy come to the big city, and Bruce imagines he took to it with the dedication he takes to everything about his human disguise. 

Sometimes, usually when he’s lost in thought but always when it’s just the two of them alone, Clark lapses into an unearthly stillness that, before he even realises what he’s doing, Bruce compares to a corpse (and of course there was the time that Bruce had jerked awake to find Clark still in the bed beside him; he may have said his name, fingers scrabbling after signs of life, until he heard Clark’s preternaturally calm, _Bruce? What is it?_ It was after that that Bruce started leaving the bed – or whatever surface they’d collapsed against – and finding somewhere else to sleep).

This is all under normal circumstances. Bruce doesn’t remember how he discovered it – actually, that’s a damn lie, he knows full well when he first noticed, even if he didn’t put all the pieces together at the time – but when Clark is affected by kryptonite, he needs to breathe.

They’ve been using the collar for a while already. It had been Clark’s idea, and Bruce still remembers the way his eyes had slid away as he suggested it, the colour that rose in his cheeks and the hesitancy in his voice. He hadn’t needed to ask twice, though. 

There’s nights when Bruce allows himself to let go, and be taken in any way Clark wants to take him; when he lets himself forget who he is. Clark’s fingers and lips and tongue and cock can make him forget his own name on those nights, which is exactly what he wants. 

This isn’t one of these nights. 

He’s waiting for him, the collar laced through his fingers. He hasn’t taken the cowl off – for this, he wants to leave it on. He’s not Bruce tonight; he’s not smiles and easy debauchery and the kind of sneaky innuendos that would make a mother superior blush and giggle and twirl her habit around her finger. Tonight he’s cold and hard and there’s only one body on the face of the earth that can take what he wants to dish out.

Bruce is the one who chooses when the collar comes out. It’s just one of the things they have come to an unspoken agreement over. It’s a tacit understanding between them that Clark shouldn’t know when to expect it. He’ll be able to sense it before the full power of the kryptonite hits him, but Bruce has never asked how close he has to be before he realises; if he’d even have the chance to collect himself and fly away before it can take hold, or if he really doesn’t have any choice but to come crashing down in front of him, his landing awkward and heavy as his powers are sapped. 

That’s the first – and only – warning he gets. 

“Bruce?” 

Clark’s voice echoes through the caverns of the burnt-out remains of Wayne Manor, and Bruce’s fingers tighten on the collar. 

Bruce doesn’t like talking – if he ever likes talking – during these times. While Clark is still on his knees on the ground he’ll reach down and pull his head back, wrapping the collar around that long white throat of his. Sometimes there’ll be a boot in the small of his back, forcing his spine in an unnatural curve that, despite his current state, Bruce knows his body can take. But more often he’ll just tug on the leash, forcing Clark to scrabble after him on his hands and knees, slipping on the floor and only just managing to keep up. 

Bruce is nothing if not methodical in pursuing his goals. And he’s realised by now that when he has Clark collared and completely at his mercy like this, it’s not the fact that he's feeding him his cock that's making him come so hard. It's not just the tightness of Clark’s throat around him, or the sight of his lips stretched around the base.

It’s also the small, desperate choking sounds he makes, the ineffectual movements of his head as he tries either to throw him off or swallow him deeper. It’s the short, wheezing gasps he makes when Bruce withdraws briefly, only shove himself back in, forcing himself past the gate of Clark’s lips and teeth. It’s the helpless look in those blue, blue eyes that has him coming harder than he ever has before in his life, before he finally pulls out, for good this time, utterly spent, and leaving ropes of come smeared across Clark’s lips and face.

 _Fuck._ He’s already hard, standing in the darkness, watching as Clark’s shadow grows shorter on the marble floor, his footsteps echoing. He hesitates, and Bruce knows he can feel it now – the kryptonite’s dark pull on his body. He once told Bruce that it felt like someone injecting ice water into his veins and feeling it slowly spread throughout his body, and that’s an image Bruce can work with. 

He waits until Clark has passed him in the entrance hall, where he’s waiting behind a pillar.

“Bruce?” Clark says again, and Bruce can see the slight tremble in his shoulders, the clench of his fists as he fights to stay upright. He can’t hear him, can’t detect his presence. Not this close to the collar, with his senses dulled like this. 

He doesn’t want to wait. He slips out from where he’s standing, coming up behind Clark and wrapping one hand under his chin, forcing his head up, while the other winds the collar around his throat and snaps it closed. 

“Don’t struggle,” Bruce says, voice low in his throat. 

Of course, he doesn’t listen, and Bruce curls his fingers, pressing down, feeling Clark’s weak scrabble against his wrist. It's nothing like the strong grasp that even at its strongest, Bruce knows is only the merest fraction of what he’s capable of. But _this_ – this is pathetic, his fingertips sliding over his skin as they look for purchase, the struggle as Bruce pulls him back against his body, letting him feel his hardened cock pressing into the small of his back.

Bruce can just see the wild look in his eye as he strains his head around, and then he lets him go, and Clark drops to the floor like a stone. 

Bruce circles him slowly, watching Clark struggle on his hands and knees, his breath already coming at a pant. Bruce lets the leash uncoil from his palm, pooling on the floor in front of Clark, before twisting it around his hand and giving it a vicious tug, bringing him down on his elbows. 

“I told you,” he mutters, his voice thick, dark and filled with blood. 

There’s a thousand things he could do to Clark when he’s like this – a thousand things he _has_ done. But tonight, there’s only thing he’s interested in. Clark doesn’t need to breathe. Except for when he does. 

This is more than just libido, Bruce sometimes realises when he lets himself think about it, which isn’t often – this is trying to fill a fault line that runs so deep within him that he has never seen the bottom of it. He has tried for years, filling it with everything and nothing, but until this – until Clark – he never even came close. Even if it drains empty again every morning, it doesn’t change the fact that the only moments of peace he’s known have been there, with this man.

Clark is heavy, but Bruce drags him across the floor without even feeling it. He can hear Clark’s gasps behind him, feel the tug on the leash as he rolls on the ground, pulling at the collar, trying to halt his inexorable progress deeper inside the Manor. Bruce pulls again, hearing Clark’s corresponding cough.

“I won’t tell you again.”

Things are smoother after that, Clark’s struggles stopped for now. There’s an iron reinforcing wire sticking up out of a collapsed piece of ceiling; a vast slab of concrete that used to form the floor of the dining hall. Despite the ruin, Bruce has every room still mapped out in his head, knows where every piece of rubble once used to stand. He can put it all back together in his head and take it apart again, and has done, any number of times over the years. Piece by piece, stone by stone. 

The slab, with its curled and twisted wires, suits his purposes now. He winds the leash around it, pulling Clark so his back is against the concrete, leaning back propped up against it. Bruce takes one of his hands and lifts it, feeling only the slightest struggle, before he presses it back, circling it with the leash, fastening it to the wire. The other hand he leaves free; there’s no point if he can’t see Clark trying to do what he says, knowing things will only get worse if he doesn’t. 

Then he leans back, to look.

Clark is breathing now, his chest rising and falling heavily, desperately, trying to heave in enough oxygen to power his body through the effect of the kryptonite. His left hand is tied, but his right is on the collar, trying futilely to slip his fingers between it and the skin of his throat. It can’t be done, and he knows it. He knows how meticulous Bruce is, and it’s not as if they haven’t done this before. 

One foot is planted on the ground, as if Clark is trying to push himself up, his hips rising as his leg scrabbles ineffectually against the floor. 

“B-Bruce, I – ”

His voice is breathy and weak. Bruce stands before him, looking down. He can still see him, even in this dark – the blood rising in his cheeks, his blue eyes glazed and half-lidded, lips turning dark and swollen. It could have been fear that’s making him pant and writhe like this, except for the fact that when Clark opens his thighs, Bruce can see the growing bulge between them, pushing against the material of his uniform in a way that’s almost obscene. It reminds Bruce that, despite the effects of the kryptonite, it’s still Superman he has lying here before him, powerless and weak and desperate and panting, like a cornered animal.

The suit still traces all the thick valleys of his muscles, every perfect line of his body. Every dip and groove, from the sharp V of his hips to the straining cords of his biceps, Bruce can see everything, watching every twitch and quiver. And for a moment when Bruce drops to his knees in front of him, he forgets which one of them holds the power here.

The knife he uses to cut away the uniform is tried and tested; of course, he collected samples from Doomsday’s broken corpse before the government had it spirited away. It could punch through the suit then, and the knife Bruce had fashioned from it slices through the suit like it’s butter now, leaving Clark’s skin bare below it.

Bruce doesn’t bother with the top half; his desires, his _needs_ are too urgent now, and he cuts away at the suit over Clark’s hips, forcing them down when Clark tries to twist away.

“Stay still, goddamn you.” 

When there’s a big enough cut, he yanks it down Clark’s thighs, his cock springing free, hard and leaking against his belly. Clark moans, as if he’s beyond words, beyond the capacity to form words, even though Bruce has barely touched him. His cock leaves trails of pre-come over his abdominal muscles, clenching and twitching beneath his pale skin.

He watches Clark’s face – that inhumanly beautiful face – as he slowly trails his fingers down over his stomach, past his navel ( _why does he have one?_ Bruce has time to wonder as he passes it by), calloused fingertips scraping over the sensitive skin in the valley between hips and thigh. Clark gasps, jerking up, as if seeking more, and Bruce decides to have mercy.

Clark whimpers when Bruce wraps his fingers around his cock, the sound so pathetic that Bruce almost laughs.

When Clark is as full and straining and swollen as this, he's too thick even for Bruce's fingers to fully encircle (and if he's being honest, Bruce likes the fact that, no matter how prepared he is and how much lube they use, he still feels a dull slice of pain down his spine when Clark enters him; he still struggles to relax himself around the massive intrusion, even on the nights when Clark tells him that he will be gentle). Pre-come leaks from the head, sliding down the length of him, dripping onto Bruce’s hands as he holds him. 

He doesn’t move; he simply allows Clark to make what small movements he can, thrusting up into palm. Bruce watches his face, watches the muscles in Clark’s neck cord against his skin, pressing against the collar. When Bruce tightens his fingers, even a little, Clark’s head falls back against the concrete slab, his mouth falling open in an unstifled moan.

“Keep doing that,” Bruce mutters, staring down as Clark rolls his hips, seeking more contact, his hips stuttering from the effort of keeping going, even as the collar digs deeper into his skin. He wants to watch this; there is something artless in Clark’s moves, as if he is doing this for the first time, moving wholly on instinct. It’s almost as if everything that happens still comes as a surprise to him, as if he remains a stranger to the sensations that Bruce can pull out of his body, and they still catch him unguarded every time. 

So Bruce just watches, allowing Clark to fuck his hand, his face contorted, eyebrows furrowed, lips pulled back into what is almost a snarl.

Eventually, he has to close his eyes; the cords of desire that run through his body are pulled too taut inside him, and if he does not keep control of himself, he’ll do something he cannot take back. He clenches his free hand into a fist, still feeling the long slide of Clark’s cock in the other. He twists his hand and Clark cries out, hips shuddering to a stop. 

Taking up the knife again, Bruce slices down the front of Clark’s uniform, not being careful, not caring if the blade bites into his skin. Clark doesn’t resist, he only moans, his body held still by Bruce’s fist around his cock. He feels it pulse against his palm as he cuts, letting the material fall away. 

For a moment, Bruce traces the pale circle of Clark’s peaking nipple with the point of the knife, the pressure just shy of breaking the skin. Clark turns his face away, his eyes rolling up to look at Bruce out of the corner of his eye. Bruce watches him carefully, watching the way his pulse flutters around the collar as he presses just a little harder, driving the point into his skin. Clark’s eyes snap shut.

“Bruce, please.”

He doesn’t know what Clark is asking for, or if he’d give it to him if he knew. For a moment, he balances the knife between Clark’s skin and the tip of his finger – before letting it fall, discarded, to clatter on the marble at Clark’s side.

Bruce can tell he’s surprised from the way his eyes fly open again – he’s gotten used to that pain, Bruce reflects. So it’s time to try something different. This is what he came here for, and called Clark here for. The things he can’t do with anyone else, their bodies writhing against each other in the dark.

He releases his grip on Clark’s heavy cock, his own blood stirring a little at the strangled noise that forces its way past the man’s lips. He has been painfully hard for some time now, but he’s pushed that into the corner of his mind, ignored it, the same way he has learned to ignore all the needs of his body until he’s ready to deal with them. 

Sitting back on his heels, Bruce opens his suit, taking out his hard cock, holding it in his hand. Clark’s eyes fall on it immediately, as if they’re drawn to it by magnetism, and he runs the tip of his tongue over his lips. For a moment, Bruce is tempted simply to feed it to him, force it down his endless throat until he chokes. 

But again, that’s not what he’s come here for tonight. 

Bruce withdraws a little, and Clark moans, twisting, his cock swaying at the movement, dripping over his stomach, his balls heavy with unspilled come. 

“Bruce, please, I need you – I _need_ –”

His words are cut off as Bruce throws himself forward, one hand going to Clark’s hip, the other to his throat, pressing down just above the collar. He stares into Clark’s eyes, watching comprehension dawn, just before he presses down, and they slide shut. 

Bruce looks down, looking between their bodies where their cocks are pressed against each other. He brings his hand up to wrap around them both, as far as he can manage, before thrusting his hips forward. Clark arches up off the ground, as far as Bruce’s weight pressing down on him and the bonds of the leash will allow him, the muscles in his stomach twitching, his breath coming in short, breathless gasps around Bruce’s hand. 

The heat of Clark against him sends pleasure spiraling through Bruce’s body; already he can feel that dark gathering at the base of his spine, the slow build in his cock. Nonetheless, he lets himself thrust forward twice more, squeezing them together, letting pain spike through the building pleasure. When he moves back, releasing them, he buries his face in the white arch of Clark’s neck, bound by the collar, before shoving his hips forward. Clarks stiffens beneath him, every muscle going taut, as Bruce rubs his cock against him, letting him feel the length and the hardness; barely brushing over the entrance to Clark’s body. Clark jerks against him, as he’s trying to force himself down onto his dick, his back bending, desperate. 

He doesn’t want it to be that easy, though; Bruce simply ruts against him, ignoring Clark’s increasingly desperate moans. Clark is so ready for him, so willing, so desperate to be filled, but Bruce needs to make himself wait. There is nothing he wants more than to bury himself to the hilt, to fuck Clark until neither of them know their own names. 

But he’s methodical. When he is doing something he has never done before, he wants to devote time and attention to getting it right. 

So he forces himself to heave back, taking his lips from Clark’s throat, though not without leaving a dark red mark behind him. The collar worries against it, pressing on it. 

Bruce slides his hand down over Clark’s steel-perfect muscles, squares his hip to him, and then presses forward, sinking himself into the throbbing, living heat of Clark’s body.

Clark arches to meet him, his head thrown back, everything in him taut and straining. Bruce cannot hold back a groan as he pushes past the ring of his muscle; there is nothing that can compare to this, this first penetration, even if he does it a thousand times. Clark’s body holds him like a glove, seemingly trying to draw him in deeper, even when he is sheathed to the hilt, buried as deep as he can go. 

He lies there a moment, simply feeling the twitch of Clark’s muscles around him, the heave of his chest. Clark’s lungs are filling with air in a way they do not ordinarily need to, pushing out and then drawing it in again, sustaining him despite the dark hold of the kryptonite at his throat. Bruce grits his teeth as Clark squeezes himself around his cock, evidently trying to spur him to some movement, but Bruce forces the surge of pleasure that nearly overtakes him back, forcing his mind to stay focused. 

He is slow, at first, pulling himself in and out of Clark’s body with long, slow drags of his hips, feeling his body flutter every time he pushes forward. The next time Clarks opens his mouth, the sound that emerges is almost a sob, and Bruce feels his control wavering, if only for a second. The sound sends fire down his veins, darts of pleasure curling through his body, his dick twitching where it rests inside Clark’s body. 

The cry that rises in Clark’s throat when Bruce makes his first hard thrust bounds off the walls around them, echoing through the empty chambers of the Manor, disturbing whatever creatures have made their home here since its destruction. As Bruce speeds his movements, shoving his hips forward quickly and brutally now, the cries that leave Clark’s lips and those that are still flying around them become indistinguishable. Clark has never held back the noises he makes when Bruce touches him; when he fucks him. It’s just one other thing that Bruce files away in his mind about him, and tries not to consider too hard until later, but then never quite makes the time. 

He can feel dark heat gathering in his groin, feel the pull of everything within him surging towards one single point, and he forces himself to slow, pausing as he shifts his weight, the sweat over their skin making him slide against Clark’s body. The clench of Clark’s muscles around him in reaction seems to wash over his whole body, sends white heat licking over his nerves, and Bruce has to struggle to concentrate.

Leaving his left hand where it grips Clark’s hip, Bruce raises his right, catching Clark’s throat in his fingers. He presses down, his thumb over the pulse that flutters in Clark’s neck, squeezing ever so slightly. He watches as fear spreads over Clark’s face at the unfamiliar sensation – he might know that that kryptonite means he has to breath far more regularly than usual, but Bruce is sure that he has never known what it feels like to suddenly be deprived of oxygen; has never felt the panicked instinct rise in his chest when he finds he cannot breathe. 

Bruce eases his grip for a moment, only to tighten it again when he thrusts forward, feeling Clark’s feeble struggle beneath him. His eyes are locked onto Bruce’s, mouth widening as he seeks after a breath that will not come. Bruce watches him, knowing that he’s doing so at the expense of giving himself over to his own pleasure, keeping his hips moving steadily, driving himself into Clark over and over again. 

The fear in Clark’s eyes becomes panic as he realises that this time, Bruce isn’t slackening his grip; his fingers remain where there are, pressed against his windpipe, just above the collar, his thumb reducing his pulse to a thread. He watches as Clark’s lips part, his mouth open wide, heaving in what sips of breath he can around Bruce's fingers, as his eyes slowly begin to roll back in his head, before snapping shut. 

_Now,_ Bruce thinks. _It has to be now._

Shifting his weight, he takes his hand from Clark’s hip and curls it around his cock, griping it firmly, jerking up and down along his length, sticky and glistening from the copious amounts of pre-come Clark has spilled over himself. His cock is as stiff as Bruce has ever felt it, his pulse beating against Bruce’s palm, warm and solid and hard as steel. 

Bruce shoves himself forward twice more, one hand digging into Clark’s throat, the other circling his dick, and then he feels Clark spilling his come over his palm, spurting in warm waves that drip down his wrist and spatter on to Clark’s own chest and abs. Bruce keeps rubbing him up and down, milking him of every last drop, until his cock is twitching in his hand, spent and useless.

The tiny cry that escapes Clark’s throat is ragged and hoarse, barely a sound at all; it’s not the sound of pleasure, but of the desperate attempt to suck air into his lungs. Bruce grunts; Clark’s muscles twitch around him, his body pulling itself tight, squeezing itself into a tight ball of panic. It’s only then that Bruce lets him go, and Clark gasps in a breath, a massive, wheezing gulp of air.

In the next second, Bruce feels his orgasm bearing down on him, coming almost unexpectedly, tearing through him with a force he has come to know, but never to expect. Every time it shocks him just how deeply he is shaken; just how powerful and engulfing. His orgasms at times like this seem almost ripped from his body, leaving his nerves ragged and tattered behind it. He empties himself into Clark, his hips jerking in spasms, gasps leaving him in spasms; for the moment at least completely empty of all thoughts; of everything except engulfing pleasure and heat.

All that remains is the husk of himself, his memories, his surroundings, all of them obliterated, if only temporarily. 

It's this that he is constantly chasing, every time he calls Clark to him; it’s this momentary void that, in the moment, makes him feel the kind of peace he has never found anywhere else. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to come back to himself, only that when he does, he’s curled over Clark’s body, sweat dripping from his chest and onto Clark’s, his hand still curled loosely around Clark’s throat. Clark’s hand is still tied, of course, the collar still around his neck, still necessitating the breath that is heavy in his chest. He’s still buried in Clark’s body, his softening cock only just now beginning to slide out, his come forming a slick puddle on the ground below. 

Sitting up, Bruce reaches down and tears the collar off him and throwing it across the vast chamber, into the darkness beyond. Beneath him, Clark suddenly jerks awake, or at least, out of whatever state he had drifted into after Bruce had choked him, forced him to come while his breath died ragged in his throat. 

Clark blinks, his blue eyes slowly focusing. Bruce watches him, curious, in a detached way, to know what he’ll see there – if this has finally been a step too far, if this is the time that Clark will say to him, _no more_. But as he looks up at him, his eyes clearing of the haze, Bruce sees nothing other than what he always sees: deep assurance, acceptance. The question of whether Bruce got what he wanted, and the willingness to do it again if he hasn’t.

Bruce jerks himself to standing, even when his knees protest. He shoves his soft cock back inside his pants, and then turns and walks away.


End file.
